


If I Could Break Through Time (You'd Follow Me)

by WishingStar



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Endgame Fix-It, Gen, Happy Ending, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), but it was written as a fix-it for stucky shippers, in my head it's pre-Steve/Bucky/Peggy, there is technically no slash in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 13:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18966181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WishingStar/pseuds/WishingStar
Summary: Steve would never truly leave Bucky behind. Especially not when Bucky needs him most.





	If I Could Break Through Time (You'd Follow Me)

**Author's Note:**

> As per tags: there is technically no Stucky in this fic, but that's more a lack of opportunity than lack of intent. There is no Steggy either. In my head it's pre-OT3.
> 
> The working title was "If You Want Something Done, Do It Yourself," in honor of the fact that I've read like a dozen Endgame fix-its and this happened in _none_ of them. What gives?
> 
> Also, sorry if it's a little dark. I picked Bucky's POV more or less on a whim and then things started... spiraling...
> 
> None of my stuff is beta'd, but this one is even rougher than usual, because I just wanted it _done_.

Bucky can’t tell if the noise wakes him, or if the noise is all in his head.

He peels his cheek off the cold metal floor, wincing as the movement sets off a sharp twinge in his shoulder. He rolls over, gritting his teeth against the phantom pain shooting through his left… where his arm used to be. A month ago, or two months, or maybe it’s been six months, who the hell knows—maybe it’s been a year—who-the-hell-knows-how-long ago, pain this bad made for a pretty good hint that he was awake, that the things he saw and heard existed outside his imagination.

That hasn’t been the case for a while, now. Not since… was that how it happened? Sorting through his memories of the past however-long makes his head throb, but… yeah, that sounds like the kind of stupid thing he’d do. Doctor Johann Fennhoff, a.k.a. Asshole Number Two, wondering aloud how Bucky knew, not every time but far more often than he should, whether he was awake or whether Fennhoff had _focused_ him. And Bucky, flying high on some idyllic dream about winning the dart throw at Coney Island, _telling Fennhoff_ right to his face that he only got phantom pain in the real world.

Now his sessions with Fennhoff hurt, too. Well. Serves him right for not seeing that coming. At least it’s better than the old-fashioned torture they use to throw at him before Fennhoff showed up.

A door slams, somewhere on the edge of hearing. A muffled burst of gunfire follows. Bucky lies supine in his pitch-dark cell and wonders if he’ll have to move. They stage intruder drills here sometimes, he hears them, but they don’t come this deep underground. Other times, Fennhoff _focuses_ him into hallucinating an attack on the base. Bucky’s not stupid—well, not all the time. He knows Fennhoff eagerly anticipates the day he can report back to Asshole Number One that the subject has _fully acclimated to his new position_ , which is how he likes to describe Bucky getting so disheartened that he could see a clear path to freedom in front of him, and not bother taking it. They aren’t there yet. Bucky would lay odds on how long it will take, only he has no idea how long it’s been.

A sharp _rat-tat-tat_ startles him, and he winces again. Heavy gunfire, and closer than usual. He shuts his eyes and forces himself to relax. If Fennhoff’s trying to provoke him to respond, Fennhoff can suck it. If not… well, much as he’d love to watch the Assholes get gunned down by Nazis or the Japanese or whoever the hell is attacking Russia these days, the way his head pounds and back aches and non-existent arm throbs mean he’d just as soon not move, if possible.

Assholes probably aren’t even in the building.

Then a loud crash rattles the door of Bucky’s cell.

Bucky curls into a defensive ball, right arm raised to shield his face against the angry emergency-yellow light flooding the doorway. He blinks furiously, tensed for fight-or-flight in spite of himself. Then his vision starts to clear, and he knows for sure this isn’t the real world, because he sees a dead man crouched by his side.

“I’ve got him,” the dead man barks into a radio, then he cradles Bucky’s head in both hands. “Buck. Buck, can you hear me?”

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky murmurs, because why not? Fennhoff might have led his mind down this path for some yet-unguessed and probably cruel reason, but he can’t use Bucky to get to Steve, not since Steve took up residence at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. And he doesn’t need to use Steve to get to Bucky. So whatever the motive behind it, Bucky might as well appreciate the chance to see Steve again.

“Come on, we’re getting out of here,” Steve says. “Can you walk?”

“Dunno.” He suspects he can, but it will hurt. He lets Steve haul him upright; sure enough, his stiff muscles scream in protest. He sags against Steve’s blessedly solid form.

“I thought you were dead,” he says, more to needle Fennhoff than anything.

“And I thought you were—oh, shit, your arm.”

Bucky blinks; somehow he hadn’t expected an imaginary Steve to react as though they truly haven’t seen each other since that day in the Alps. In most of his hallucinations, even the ones that reenact memories of the past, people accept his missing arm as a matter of course.

Steve maneuvers them until he can tuck Bucky against his right side. Bucky can’t hang on, this way, and Steve can’t use his right arm to fight, but it gives them each a hand free.

“I’m gonna need you to cover us,” Steve says, and offers him a pistol.

Bucky freezes. So that’s the play.

The Assholes want to break him, he worked out that much within a week of capture. He hasn’t worked out _why_ , or why they don’t go hassle someone with four limbs intact. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure that if they’re trying this hard to sever his grip on reality, they don’t plan to keep him locked in a cell forever. They plan to twist his brain into a knot, convince him up is down, then send him out into the world and make him _do things_. Hell, they could already be doing it. He might not be in this bunker at all. He might not be in this bunker, and Steve is definitely not with him, and the people he’s expected to shoot on the way out—might not be who he thinks they are.

“Buck. Come on, we haven’t got time,” Steve urges.

“I’m not,” Bucky stammers. He hates the quaver in his voice, hates sounding like a confused child, but he hasn’t prepared to defend against this and he needs to. He needs to fight it. He isn’t there yet. _He isn’t theirs yet._

“What? You’re not what?” Steve shoves the weapon towards him, every line of his body conveying tense urgency.

Bucky staggers back a step, putting enough distance between them to meet Steve’s eyes, shadowed as they are in the dim light. Ironically, if Fennhoff had picked anyone other than Steve for this charade, Bucky might have taken the gun. But here they are.

“Steve Rogers is dead,” he says firmly, because he needs to hear it even though it tips his hand. “He went down with the Red Skull’s plane. So this isn’t real. So whatever you’re up to, showing me his face, I want no part in it.”

He expects the hallucination to dissolve, leaving him back on the metal floor with Fennhoff frowning down at him. Instead, Steve lets out a long breath.

“Okay.” Steve glances out the cell door, then holsters the gun and grips Bucky by the shoulders. “It’s a _really_ long story, and we don’t have time. Once we get out of here I’ll explain everything, but I need you to—“ he gives a frustrated sigh. “You don’t have to trust me yet. I just need you to follow. I won’t ask you to fight. Just stay with me, till we’re out, and then I can explain. Can you do that? Can you stay with me?”

Bucky hesitates, looking for the catch. Steve’s radio crackles.

_They’ve got backup on the way, Steve. It’s now or never._

Damn Fennhoff and his _acclimation to his new position_ ; if Bucky turns down this chance, the Assholes have won.

“I can do that,” Bucky says.

Steve leads him into the yellow-lit corridor. By the door he stoops to retrieve a large metal disk; it looks like an unpainted version of the shield, but it’s warped badly, and one edge is smashed practically flat. Steve straps it to his arm with a rueful smile. “Not as good as the old one,” he comments.

Bucky, dogging his footsteps through the base, has plenty of time to contemplate that. Steve uses the disk as both shield and bludgeon, like always, but he never throws it. Bent like that, Bucky guesses it wouldn’t fly true. He’s also wearing dark tac gear, Bucky notices—no red, white, or blue in sight, at least not from the back. Bucky’s mind wouldn’t come up with these kinds of details… would it?

Up five flights of stairs, around several corners, over the corpses of a dozen Russian agents, around another corner—then the blinding white of sunlight off snow sends Bucky reeling. They’ve entered a wide, high-ceilinged chamber like an aircraft hangar, and in the far wall… shit, Bucky’s done it. He’s reached the surface, he’s seeing the outdoors. If Fennhoff pulls the rug out from under him, it’s going to be now.

A small, dark figure closes in from their right, and Bucky’s stumbling to face the threat, wishing for a split second he’d taken the pistol—

“You took your bloody time!” the figure snaps. “I was about to go back in—oh my God, you’ve got him. You’ve really got him.” A thin hand slips under Bucky’s right elbow, an unexpected support. Bucky leans into it gratefully and squints at Agent Peggy Carter. Huh.

“You know,” Agent Carter calls over her shoulder, shepherding Bucky toward the bright exit, “I’m not sure I quite believed you until this moment.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Steve circles behind them, bringing up the rear, and then they’re out into the bracing cold of the snow-covered surface.

This… this might be real.

Several hundred yards from the base, a ski-plane lies hidden in a small depression, its propellers already turning. They pile into it, Peggy clambering up first and turning to offer Bucky a hand. Steve climbs in behind them, followed by a fourth person who must have been guarding the plane. God, it’s Dum-Dum Dugan. Bucky feels a catch in his throat as they lock eyes.

From the look on Dum-Dum’s face, he’s similarly choked up. “Sarge,” he mutters thickly. “My God. First the Captain, now—fuck it.” He tackles Bucky in a bear hug. Luckily, Bucky’s already sitting down.

The whirring of the plane kicks up a notch, and the pilot yells something Bucky can’t catch. Then he’s thrown back in his seat as the plane accelerates, Dum-Dum still on top of him.

Once they’re airborne, Dum-Dum extricates himself from Bucky’s seat and joins Peggy on the opposite bench. “Shit, Sarge,” he says, “what happened to your arm? Was that supposed to happen?” He glances at Steve, sitting on Bucky’s right. “I mean, obviously it wasn’t supposed to happen, but was it… _supposed_ to happen?”

“I may have forgotten to mention the arm,” Steve mutters. What the hell? Bucky turns—and gets his first good look at Steve’s face in daylight, outside the dim confines of the base. What he sees propels him to his feet, alarmed.

“What the fuck is this?” he demands.

Steve’s hurt and confused, Bucky can tell, because that’s Steve’s hurt expression on Steve’s features, Bucky would know them anywhere. But Steve—isn’t. He’s got a faint slump to his shoulders that he never had before, and he has lines on his face, a shadow in his eyes, and none of it’s right. It’s like he’s aged ten years or more, and Bucky can tell from Peggy’s face and Dum-Dum’s and his own shattered mind that it hasn’t been anywhere near _that_ long.

But all three are watching him like he’s a viper about to strike.

“You’re not my Steve,” he protests, feeling his newfound grip on sanity slip away. Even he doesn’t know what he means by that. It’s clearly Steve—only it isn’t—

Steve barks a laugh, scrubbing his face with both hands in what looks for all the world like _relief_. Dum-Dum chuckles as well.

“Impressive,” Peggy tells him, smiling. “Full marks for perception. Steve, darling, explain yourself to the poor man. He looks terrified.”

“You remember I said it was a long story?” Steve asks. “Well, the short version is, I’m a time traveler now. I survived the plane crash, ended up in the future, then I traveled back in time and here I am.”

Shit, how can this be real?

“Tell him something to prove it,” Peggy urges, nudging Steve’s knee. “Tell him something that’ll happen that you’ve no way of knowing. Like you told us where to find him.”

“I have no idea what’s going to happen,” Steve replies, and his face lights up in a way Bucky’s never seen. Shit, Bucky’s _never_ seen him this happy. “We made a huge change to the timeline. It’s all new.” He turns his radiant smile on Bucky, and Bucky sinks back to the bench, weak-kneed in the face of that smile.

“It’s all new,” Steve laughs, and takes Bucky’s hand.


End file.
